


Pale: rotting souls

by lorielen (culuyetille)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: BDSM, Bloodplay, Character Study, Implied Incest, M/M, Underage Sex, general nastiness, narcissism., self-deprecation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-01-20
Updated: 2003-01-20
Packaged: 2021-03-11 23:07:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28875414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/culuyetille/pseuds/lorielen
Summary: Characters borrowed from Hazelnut's 'Kissing a Grave'. Here, Draco decides he doesn't need a soul to stop being the Lesser Malfoy to Severus Snape. Draco's POV.
Relationships: draco/snape





	Pale: rotting souls

**Author's Note:**

> I am forever grateful to Hazelnut for the wonderful fic – Kissing a Grave – and the joy it brought me, as well as her willingness to allow me to borrow her stunning version of the characters. Many, many thanks must go also to Lilith, who pointed me to Hazelnut’s fiction and was so lovely as to read part of the drafts of this fic.

I’m not a lover, I’m an apprentice. I’m the trophy of a grudge that won’t fade.  
I am the control he never had over another; I am the means for him to hurt someone else.  
But above all, I am beautiful.

-*-

They say I don’t have a soul. My misty eyes ask, did I ever?  
It isn’t like any of them does, either.

Father fights for me; it’s Pride.  
Professor wants me, it’s the Lies he tells himself and everyone else.  
Potter hates me because we. Are. So. Very. Much. Alike.

Especially in our deprecating sluttiness, our fondness of wallowing in shame as well as blood.

I can be like my Father too, at times; especially when I drawl mockingly. But more than anything else, I can try and breathe like Severus Snape.  
My hands are every bit as deft for Potions-making, my tongue equally slitting in its wielding of sarcasm. I just look better while at it.  
That, and I can give much better head. But this is between Father, Potter and me. He’d never admit I’m the best at something. Not with me being Malfoy.

And a Malfoy I am, indeed. Enough to realise that my lack of soul has touched him – that he hates things as they are now because he can’t be too sure about what’s going on inside me, anymore. I’m no longer the boy he moulded to fit his whims, no longer his own private affection whore.  
Or maybe it’s too egotist of me to think he’d be bothered like that, or that he remotely cares, at all. Does anyone care for those one dominates? Or are they just worthless filth, once the challenge is over?  
There’s never been much of a challenge, with me. Not for him, at least. I can’t say I knew what he was doing until some years ago, but then, I can’t say I hold any of it against him, either. He is rather pitiful in his pursue of self-approval and the way that his own opinion of himself is one with my Father’s. He is a Malfoy’s clown, a condition he seeks to rectify by being another Malfoy’s king. My own, namely.

How I adore him, in his alluring darkness, his acid eating of the remainders of his own humanity. Morbidly fascinating and so very enticing in the destructiveness he dedicates to himself and those around him; the one he has inflicted in me.  
I hate all things beautiful, but I worship my own face and Severus’ fall from grace. I have grown to find the beauty of rotting worthy of awe, in its own bloody, dirty little way. I have learned to appreciate myself and the impressive magic that is the ugly-fying of my divine features by being contrary to everything Men call “right” in their hearts.  
I am also something of a silver tongue, don’t you think?

Words are my own environment, at times even more than looks or deeds. Because words are what I make of them, what I want them to be. I look the way I do by an accident of Nature; I am the way I am because of those who brought me up. I talk like I do by my own merit.  
Severus was never one for talking.

He doesn’t like it when I use his first name. It’s insolent, I know. It’s digging my own fangs at the steely domination he has woven around me. And just because of that it is so very delicious to purr, no, hiss his name with all those ‘s’ssss.... Ssssseverusss... I make it languid and daring, and won’t get any more than a raised and reproving dark eyebrow.  
That’s when I squeeze his crotch to remind him that yes, I did notice the bulge there. I did notice the faint twinkle in his eyes, secretly appreciating of my intimacy and lack of respect towards him and his established rules.

His soul is bleeding through his eyes, slamming itself against the thorns of his self-control. It wants me.  
All serpents can smell blood and aren’t but delighted at sensing it.

Black and silver shall tangle again.

-*-

His sleep is light and silent as he lay beside me. He never lets me sleep on his bed, but he will, occasionally, take mine as his own for a night.  
He doesn’t let me cuddle, but then, that’s unimportant. I don’t cuddle and, what’s more relevant, I don’t think he lets Potter, either.  
I know I don’t. Also know he doesn’t want to.

Potter visited me every night for the time I laid on that bed, wrapped in my own arms and the whitish cloth over them. I cannot say anything about his motivations; if it was my disgust at his mere presence or the pleasure that he achieved to grasp amidst it in the revolted groans I’d let out as he expertly brought culmination to us both. Dirty, dirty. He loves to think that I want him against my own will.  
I love to see him get offended when I tell him how much I despise him for being so much like myself. When I know he isn’t; were he like me, he wouldn’t get offended. His good nature is hidden somewhere in his core and I can bring it up, at times. He likes bringing my devilry to surface in order to paint it in bright silver and make it beautiful, and I enjoy dragging up his own beauty just so that I can maul it.  
We are a most lovely couple. Such narcissistic bastards, in love with our own power over each other.

Power. Such is the issue, right now, and I must get started on the adorable string of actions I have in my devious mind.  
As everything worth telling, it starts with aristocratic fingers wrapping around a wand.

The spell is murmured, for I don’t care to wake him up. Not just yet. The words are familiar; I’ve had them whispered to me many a time. A cruel smirk is the customary facial display that goes with them; pain is not, however, their most immediate effect.

I feel power and excitement bubble in every pore of me as he slowly lifts both eyelids, revealing hollow blackness that won’t shine. His face remained expressionless and he didn’t move a muscle, didn’t pull or tug at the boundaries on his writs and ankles. The only indication that he isn’t appreciative of it is the intensity of his glare.

I offer him a smug smile as I position myself on top of him, straddling his thighs, wand still in hand. Something glitters on my other hand, silver against the darkness that is the room and Severus.  
It’s a flash and there’s red in the picture as well, sticky and streaming from his chest, staining my blade. I had never been but at the slitting side of a dagger; the power that invades me is overwhelming.  
I welcome it; it is my own.

He grits his teeth as he looks at me. His body is unresponsive to my own crotch placed atop his, to the friction that many a time has made him so hard that he’d hiss at the venomous stinging of arousal. It is quite alright, though, that he isn’t but staring coolly at me. It is not his pleasure I’m working for, tonight.

His coal eyes aren’t black holes of hunger and wanton; instead they’re daring. He is perfectly aware that I know better than to hurt him.

Silvery sparkles leave the tip of my wand, which I am using to trace the length of the magnificent slash on his chest. His breathing is even and his gaze seeks mine, domineering. The glittery tidbits are fire and also needles of ice, pinpricks of agony.  
He knows I can’t hurt him.

I stick the wand inside his wound, making the sticky blood spill anew. It looks ravishing against my fingers.

I move the wood, prodding, delighted at the little viscous sounds. His heart is thumping beneath my palm, and I know I’ve somehow poked at it, too.  
My eyes seek his; his lips are pursed and he looks more ghostly than ever. However, silver isn’t engulfed by black.

A sweet smile is all I wear as, with every bit of my Tutor’s own absolute lack of scruples, I pull the wand out. Slowly.  
No lubricating for us.

I seem to dedicate no attention to the tense and bound body beneath my own. My gaze investigates the lures of a bloodied wand, the wonders of thick crimson dripping over pulsating and pale flesh.  
I want to taste it.

And then I know, I feel him hard against me. I could smirk, but I choose to lean down and suck wetly on a reddened nipple. My own reward is the groan he can’t muffle completely in his throat.  
It must be dry.  
My tongue is deft and coarse as it harasses his left nipple, laps at the blood, drinks his shattered dominion – and I am beautiful and tantalising at it.

I kiss my way up, rocking my lower body against his as I nip at the hollow of his neck, nibble at the sensitive spot behind his ear, suck at his bottom lip. His lips are parted. I inhale the yelp he lets out as I dig my uncut fingernails on the sole wound on his chest, making it bleed again. Severus’ Pureblood has dirtied my blade and my wand, and now it maculates my flesh. I am unique and breathtaking in my devilry.  
He arches under me and it’s desire and pain that I can sense, that I can taste.

I pull back to look at the results of my well-placed efforts.

“Anguish becomes you, Professor.”

A smirk and a whisper, and I toy with strands of his dark hair. With his face tinged like this, he could be almost pretty.  
His eyes are again infernos of lust.

“Who said anything about anguish?”  
“Who needs anything said?”

Finally, the cruelty in his features matches my own.

“Malfoy becomes you, Draco.”

Insightful sod, I’ll have to give him that. But what he doesn’t know is that I’m not performing for him. This is my own show.

He’s not a lover, he is approval.

And approval I do require, when I go down on him, nipping at the folds of skin and little veins on his erection, making him buck up to try and thrust.  
His harsh breath tells me of his raw need as I slam my talented tongue against his prostate, digging my nails at the inner thighs I had just been massaging. I smell his despair and the fresh cuts on his wrists and ankles as he tugs at his bondage, eager to break free of my torturing control over the situation and every breath of his. I can make them sharp intakes of air, should I rub my thumb against the little hole on the head of his cock; I can make them low and dangerous hisses as my tongue moves lazily in circular patterns inside him.

He swears huskily and I nip at one of his testicles. He bucks his hips upwards, leaking precum, which I’m quick to taste and revel in.  
He’s panting and he’s mine to make bleed and climax at my doings. My will.

I silently reach for the lube.

He becomes louder as the games unfold into maddening delaying of his pleasure. His muscles are tensioned but there’s no strength in him.  
Just enough to glare viciously at me as I enter him, one hand of mine still fisting his erection, the other supporting my slightly trembling self so that I can look at him and savour this. I want him to see me smirk, but I can’t help parting my lips to gasp.

We move together, as we always have; and it’s a dance now rather than a fight. Unspoken truce as we taste each other, sweating together in a tangle of pale limbs.

He tilts his head backwards, groaning throatily as culmination washes over him. I can make out my name in that growl, and the wanton, disgust and helplessness he pours into his tone are enough to drive me to my own coming.

-*-

We lay in silence in my bed, smelling of sex, blood and something subtler, darker and thrilling. None of us is asleep; we keep a watchful silence.

I have undone his boundaries; green and a sickly purple mark his – oh so very pale – wrists and ankles. He hasn’t bothered to remove it, yet. I’m not sure he will. He knows fully well that he can’t.  
I do, too.

Severus cannot heal the invisible mark that is, once again, feverishly ablaze on his soul. I am branded with that very same crest myself; it can be outlined in the steely quality of my silvery gaze.

Malfoy becomes us both.


End file.
